Long to the slothful man's-the groveling herds THE TWO ROADS.-By Richter. Ir was New Year's night. An aged man was standing at a window. He mournfully raised his eyes towards the deep blue sky, where the stars were floating like white lilies on the surface of a clear, calm lake. Then he cast them on the earth, where few more helpless beings than himself were moving towards their inevitable goal-the tomb. Already he had passed sixty of the stages which lead to it, and he had brought from his journey nothing but errors and remorse. His health was destroyed, his mind unfurnished, his heart sorrowful, and his old age devoid of comfort. The days of his youth rose up in a vision before him, and he recalled the solemn moment when his father had placed him at the entrance of two roads, one leading into a peaceful, sunny land, covered with a fertile harvest, and resounding with soft, sweet songs; while the other conducted the wanderer into a deep, dark cave, whence there was no issue, where poison flowed instead of water, and where serpents hissed and crawled. He looked towards the sky, and cried out, in his anguish :"O, youth, return! O, my father, place me once more at the crossway of life, that I may choose the better road!" But the days of his youth had passed away, and his parents were with the departed. He saw wandering lights float over dark marshes, and then disappear. "Such," he said, "were the days of my wasted life!" He saw a star shoot from Heaven, and vanish in darkness athwart the church-yard. "Behold an emblem of myself!" he exclaimed; and the sharp arrows of unavailing remorse struck him to the heart. Then he remembered his early companions, who had en tered life with him, but who, having trod the paths of virtue and industry, were now happy and honored on this New Year's night. The clock in the high church-tower struck, and the sound, falling on his ear, recalled the many tokens of the love of his parents for him, their erring son; the lessons they had taught him; the prayers they had offered up in his behalf. Overwhelmed with shame and grief, he dared_no longer look towards that Heaven where they dwelt. His darkened eyes dropped tears, and, with one despairing effort, he cried aloud, Come back, my early days! Come back!" And his youth did return; for all this had been but a dream, visiting his slumbers on New Year's night. He was still young; his errors only were no dream. He thanked God fervently that time was still his own; that he had not yet entered the deep, dark cavern, but that he was free to tread the road leading to the peaceful land where sunny har vests wave. Ye who still linger on the threshold of life, doubting which path to choose, remember that when years shall be passed, and your feet shall stumble on the dark mountain, you will ery bitterly, but cry in vain, "O, youth, return! O, give me Lack my early days!" ON BOARD THE CUMBERLAND, MARCH 7, 1862. "STAND to your guns, men!" Morris cried; And then began the sailors' jests: A frown came over Morris' face; Mann'd by a rebel crew. "So shot your guns and point them straight: We'll try of what her metal's made." "Remember, boys, this flag of ours Has seldom left its place; And where it falls, the deck it strikes Is cover'd with disgrace. "I ask but this: or sink or swim, My last sight upon earth may be Meanwhile the shapeless iron mass Her ports were closed; from stem to stern We wonder'd, question'd, strain'd our eyes, She reach'd our range. Our broadside rang; And shot and shell, a fire of hell, God's mercy! from her sloping roof As hail bounds from a cottage-thatch, Or when against her dusky hull On, on, with fast increasing speed, She heeded not; no guns she fired; Alas! our beautiful, keen bow, Alas! alas! my Cumberland, Once more she backward drew apace; The dead and dying round us lay, We felt our vessel settling fast; "Ho! man the pumps !" But they who work'd, And fought not, wept with grief. "Oh! keep us but an hour afloat! Oh! give us only time To mete unto yon rebel crew The measure of their crime!" From captain down to powder-boy, Two soldiers, but by chance aboard, And when a gun's crew lost a hand, Our forward magazine was drown'd, Crawl'd out the wounded, red with blood, Yes, cheering, calling us by name, With decks afloat and powder gone, So sponges, rammers, and handspikes- "Up to the spar deck! save yourselves!" We turn'd: we did not like to go; Knee-deep in water; so we left; Some swore, some groan'd with pain. We reach'd the deck. There Randall stood: It did our sore hearts good to hear Brave Randall leap'd upon the gun, And waved his cap in sport: "Well done! well aim'd! I saw that shell It was our last, our deadliest shot; The poor ship stagger'd, lurch'd to port, Down, down, as headlong through the waves, Then I remember little more; I tried to cheer. I cannot say A blue mist closed around my eyes, When I awoke, a soldier lad, All dripping from the sea, With two great tears upon his cheeks, I tried to speak. He understood He turn'd me. There, thank God! the flag. And there, while thread shall hang to thread, The noblest constellation set A sign that we who live may claim A monument that needs no scroll, SHERIDAN'S RIDE.-By Thomas Buchanan, Reud. Up from the South at break of day, Like a herald in haste to the chieftain's door, |